


Lonely Souls Walk These Halls

by BenevolentErrancy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Creepy old house, Height Differences, M/M, urban exploring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 23:06:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7911103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenevolentErrancy/pseuds/BenevolentErrancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Jehan who believes in spirits and essences and ghosts, not Enjolras. It's Combeferre who wants to investigate the supposedly haunted house, not Enjolras. It's Courfeyrac and Grantaire who think it'll be fun to tag along, not. Enjolras. Yet it's Enjolras who finds himself getting talked into venturing into the old, creepy, decaying house with them and who finds himself stumbling around in the dark on his own.</p>
<p>He really hates Grantaire some days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lonely Souls Walk These Halls

**Author's Note:**

> a prompt from my tumblr that I wrote while I was on vacation asking for tall!Grantaire and short!Enjolras

“Jehan, are you sure this is a good idea?” Enjolras asked, tone disapproving.

He hadn’t realized he’d stopped and started inching backwards away from the looming, black doorway until he bumped against Grantaire’s chest who then had the nerve to grab his shoulders and shout “Boo!” as loudly as he could in his ear.  Scowling, Enjolras shoved at him, pushing him back in so much as you could push back someone who was damn near a foot taller than yourself.  

Grantaire just prodded him towards the door and laughed, “Scared?  I thought you lived and breathed this city, Enj.  Shouldn’t you want to explore every miserable, grimy inch of it?”

Okay, so maybe his tone had been less “disapproving” and more bordering the realm of “terrified” but he’d be damned if he’d admit it.

“No,” he snapped.  “It’s just… probably not safe.  Isn’t it condemned? And it’s illegal, this is trespassing, right?”

“Right, ‘cause we’ve never done anything illegal before,” Courfeyrac smirked, strolling past Enjolras to leap up the sagging wooden steps onto the wide, heavily shadowed porch.

“Don’t worry, Enjolras,” Jehan added, peaking their head back out through the doorway, “I’ve been in here a bunch already, it’s stable enough so long as we stay off the third floor.”

Enjolras peered up – and up and up – at the towering, ancient house.  With tall, narrow windows, moss clinging to every inch of the delicate scrollwork, and steepled little towers and chimneys rising up into the black night, the building looked like it had crawled out of the darkest corners of a ghost story, waiting to gobble them up as they stepped inside past the rotting door that slumped on its hinges and the cracked plywood that had been a half-hearted attempt to board it up.

Of course it was the _ghost story_ aspect that had brought them out here in the first place.  At the moment Jehan was incredibly keen on what they called urban exploring – finding the forgotten places surrounded by a sea of people, or something else vaguely poetic and sinister sounding – and made frequent treks about the city and into the suburbs with Bahorel or Grantaire or Courfeyrac or whoever else they could convince to climb around graffitied buildings and crumbling woodwork for a couple hours.  They’d come to their last meeting out of breath with excitement, insisting that they had felt a _presence_ in this one old house – a house which, Combeferre informed them after looking it up, had been the house of the hospital directory for an old tuberculous hospital that had been fashioned during an old epidemic that had swept the city.  While the hospital itself had been torn down decades ago the house itself had lingered.  Since then though it had been abandoned to the elements and was now condemned, and Jehan was certain that it had spirits clinging to it – perhaps poor souls who had been quarantined to the old hospital and never left, or the director himself, his soul tortured and trapped after all the suffering under his command.

Enjolras, of course, thought it was complete nonsense.  Combeferre, on the other hand, was nearly as giddy as Jehan at the prospect, and insisted they visit the next night to see if they couldn’t “detect” anything else.  Recognizing it for the foolishness it was, Enjolras politely declined when Combeferre suggested he join them.  He even resisted when Courfeyrac got wind of it and immediately after signing himself onto the expedition started turning his indomitable will on Enjolras, insisting, cajoling, and begging Enjolras join them.  Courf grinned the entire time, his begging coloured with a teasing bite – he had grown up with Enjolras and knew exactly how bad he was with horror movies, the little shit.  Enjolras refused.  But then Grantaire had turned up at the meeting, just let off from a late shift, and Enjolras realized Courfeyrac’s plan seconds before he’d managed to call Grantaire over.  Tackling Courf did no good though, because he squirmed under Enjolras’ body until he was gasping but free enough to invite a baffled Grantaire to join the ghost hunt. From that point on, there was no hope for Enjolras.  Both he and Grantaire were kept business enough with schoolwork and club work and work _-_ work that time that could be spent together was precious, and as soon as Grantaire started wheedling at Enjolras, trying to convince him to join them – _it’d be fine, just a bit of wandering around some old bloke’s house, no big deal, it’ll be fun –_ Enjolras knew he was doomed.

And that was why he could now feel his heart beating a painful staccato against his ribs as he ducked under the plywood and entered the ancient entryway.

-

It was eery, to say the least.  Thick dust covered and greyed a rug that ran the length of the hall, and though Courfeyrac gave the old light switch on the wall an experimental flick the ornate bulbs stayed clouded and lifeless.  The hall ran in either three directions from the front door.  At either end, visible only when the flashlights Jehan had brought were cast down their depths, was a door, one firmly shut and the other cracked – Enjolras tried to resist shying away from that one and whatever might be waiting inside.

“I started looking around in there,” Jehan whispered.  “It’s an old parlour.  Ferre, just _wait_ until you feel the energy in there!”

The third route was a pitch black stairwell that curved upward into the blackness of the ceiling, it’s posts crumbling apart and old steps littered with debris.  At the moment it was all Enjolar could do not to run back out the front door – nothing on this earth would get him to touch those stairs.  Even with Jehan’s reassurance that they were sturdy, it looked like a deathtrap waiting to happen.  No sooner had he inched away from the stairs though, towards where Jehan, Combeferre, and Grantaire stood with the flashlights, then the very house seemed to moan at him, as if sensing his fear.  Of course it was the wind streaming in through the boarded up windows and down the strange halls, but it was so much like a pitiful voice trapped in the houses depths, like cold fingers trailing up Enjolras spine, that he couldn’t help but shudder away, towards Combeferre when the wind seemed to solidify, wrapping its cold talons around his wrist and _pulling_ –

Grantaire gave Enjolras’s wrist a playful shake as he swallowed his yelp and said, “Shivers, Enjolras?  You sensing some _ghosts_ in here?”

Enjolras pulled his wrist from Grantaire’s hand and scowled at him.  “All I’m sensing is dicks.”  Lurching away from Grantaire, Enjolras marched further along the hall, to where Ferre and Jehan were in conference with each other.

“Hey,” Grantaire called after him, “you know you’re welcome to sense my dick all you–”

“Keep it PG, kids!” Courfeyrac shouted from open room at the end of the hall, where he had promptly ducked into after pilfering Jehan’s flashlight.  “You never know, these spirits could be minors!”

Combeferre and Jehan laughed, slipping past the door to join Courfeyrac, but Enjolras stood stock still, staring down at the dark void that was the open door, lit only by the occasional darting paths of flashlight beams.  He knew his friends were in there, it was crowded and safe with their voices, but stepping inside…

“Aw, don’t look like that,” Grantaire said, giving Enjolras a nudge. “Let’s catch up with the others.  You can hold my hand if you like,” he added with a wink.

For a moment Enjolras considered it.  It might almost be nice, despite his rabbiting heart and already frayed nerves.  Enjolras was short enough that he tucked nearly perfectly under Grantaire’s arm, and the idea of walking around the creepy old house, cocooned in Grantaire’s warmth, hand in hand was almost appealing.  But then came the thought of the amount of teasing and preening he’d have to put up with every time he jumped at a creaking roof or stray gust of wind.  He did _not_ believe in ghosts, he did _not_ , but… well, there was nothing wrong with a healthy dose of fear. Grantaire was the one always saying he didn’t have a strong enough survival instinct.  What would he say now that he saw his fearless leader – his boyfriend – trembling in his boots over make-believe monsters and shadows  In that moment he felt himself steeled and stepped stubbornly away from Grantaire, snatching the flashlight from him.

“ _You_ go join the others,” he huffed.  “I’ll look over here.”  He gestured the beam of light vaguely in the other direction, towards the door past the stairs and down the opposite end of the hall.

“What, all by yourself?” said Grantaire.  “Won’t it get _spooky_?”

“No, it won’t, because this is ridiculous and there’s no such thing as ghosts,” Enjolras snapped.  “The sooner we establish that, the sooner we can leave.”

Grantaire held his hands up defensively, though he still looked amused enough that Enjolras could feel his hackles rising.  “Alright, whatever you say.  And you call me a skeptic, Combeferre would be so disappointed in you.  We’ll meet up with you before we head upstairs, I guess.  Or, y'know, if you need a pair of warm, strong arms to protect you, you know where I’ll be.”

Cackling, Grantaire ducked to avoid the wood chip Enjolras snatched off the lopsided table in the hall and hucked at his head, before waving goodbye and slipping away into the now dark room that the others had gone into.  Leaving Enjolras in a small pool of light in an otherwise dark hall.  Alone.

_What_ had he been thinking?

Well, mostly he’d been thinking that he would get to retain an ounce of dignity by marching high-headed and confident into that room at the other end of the hall and have Grantaire trail behind him.  He hadn’t _actually_ thought Grantaire would leave him alone, god knew Enjolras could never convince him to when they had exams to study for.  But the thought of turning tail now and running immediately back to Grantaire’s side – oh, Grantaire would happily do exactly as he’d said and wrap Enjolras in his arms, tuck his head under his chin, but what it would cost in mockery made Enjolras grit his teeth.  Darn it, he was a grown man, he could walk into a dark room by himself.  He’d give the room a cursory glance around, then walk back to the others at his own pace. It was fine.  Totally fine.  This wasn’t a horror movie and there were no mass murderers or malevolent hell-beasts lurking around that door.

…This was much easier to tell himself than to believe, especially since every step he took down the hall seemed to make the entire house groan under his feet.  If there _were_ any spirits in here – _not_ that there were – they’d know exactly where Enjolras was and where he was going.

With that cheery thought in mind, Enjolras held out his flashlight like the beam was a weapon and, rallying himself, pushed the door open.

And pushed.

And briefly considered turning around with the excuse that the door was jammed, such a shame, oh well, before bracing himself and slamming his shoulder against the door.

It gave with a painfully melancholic cry and a shower of woodchips, but the door swung inward and let Enjolras stumble in, tripping over the high lip of the old door.  Swinging his flashlight around, not sure what would be worse, something hiding in the dark or _finding_ something hiding in the dark, Enjolras steadied himself against the door jam and tried to regain his breath – which promptly escaped from him again with a wheeze when he saw something skitter through his light.  A rat.  It was just a rat.  But it was also a _rat_. Lurching away from the wall, as if they could be teaming with the sharp, furry, fanged creatures, Enjolras tucked his arms into his body continued to bounce the light around the room.  He was suddenly very, very grateful for his tall boots, but the thought of those tiny, cold, claws clambering up his pantleg, biting and infecting him with some horrible, fatal disease… he groaned and shuddered. Nothing else moved in the silent, dead room though except for the dust in his flashlight’s beam, so he cautiously worked up the nerve to creep further in.

It stank, was one of the first things Enjolras was able to register once his fear of things creeping in the corners had abated somewhat.  One of the windows was shattered and though it was bordered up now it had made the room all the more exposed to the elements; that entire corner was a thicket of soggy moss and black decay, and filled the room with the moist, suffocating smell of rot, not helped by what Enjolras could only imagine were long rotten jars and boxes stacked along the room’s shelves.  It was a kitchen, he realized, as his light slid past the shelves to an old, oily stove and looming refrigerator that looked like the newest thing in the entire room and even that was outdated by some fifty years.  Tentatively Enjolras stepped further into the room if for no other reason than he didn’t want the gaping, dark doorway at his back, ready for any reaching, grasping _things_ to snatch him up.  Instead of thinking about every squeaking moan of the floorboards as he stepped, Enjolras tried to focus on cataloging everything his light unearthed.  Scraps of curtain hung in the windows, worn thinner now than the cobwebs that were draped from every corner, wallpaper that was spotted with moisture clung pitifully to the walls, and jars of fruit preserves glistened sickly, lumps suspended in greying liquids, too ancient and organic to look at for long.  There was what looked like a trapdoor of sorts built into the floor with a heavy ring for a handle set into the old, moss-coated planks, but Enjolras had no intentions of touching it, not on his own – hopefully Jehan wouldn’t notice it either because the thought of being forced to explore a basement…  The thought of dusty skeletons and forgotten demons gave Enjolras more than enough motivation to step gingerly around the door.  On the other wall was a sink lined with mildew, and a pantry that was partially open but let of such a stench and was so filled with flies that Enjolras sharply avoided it.  Cutlery was spread over the counters and Enjolras tried not to think of anything nefarious about the knives, old china glinted dully under the light, and thick layers of dust grew everywhere.

Enjolras had just about decided he’d spent enough time in this room to prove to Grantaire that he was no coward, when an ear-splitting shriek rang out, like metal on metal.   _Or claws on a sealed door, or broken teeth on bone, or…_ Heart pounding, fear thick in his throat, Enjolras stumbled back, the beam of light swinging wildly – he nearly screamed as faces jutted out at him in the dark, he only saved his pride by realizing seconds after that they were harmless, smudges on the wallpaper, an old, dull photo tacked to the wall, the cracks in the window – when the thump came.  The entire room rattled, it could be anything, dropped chains, falling bodies, murderers slipping in from the high, narrow windows – and Enjolras couldn’t help it, he jumped back with a scream in his throat.

His jump carried him back hard though, and something grabbed his foot – no, it was that ring in the floor catching on his shoe – and then he was stumbling on the old trapdoor, softened with decay, and the floor gave a creak, a moan, and finally a pitiful wail as the old planks gave and Enjolras was falling, falling, and down.

-

Enjolras had to press his hands to his mouth to keep from shrieking.  He wasn’t sure if it was to maintain some semblance of dignity or because of the bone deep certainty that _something_ would hear.  Instead he remained lying on his back, aching, and willing his heart to calm and his sense to come back to him.  He wasn’t hurt, not really.  The fall hadn’t been far, more sudden; the worst damage was a sore ankle that he’d landed badly on before flopping down onto his back.

_He was trapped he was trapped he was trapped in the basement of a haunted house._

It was going to be alright.

Carefully, biting his lip as his back twinged, Enjolras sat up and scrambled for his flashlight,  gasping with relief when his fumbling hands clasped around the light.  At least it wasn’t dead.  On the other hand he wasn’t so thrilled by what he saw.  He was in a… cellar, or sorts. There was a gaping rectangle of blacker darkness where the trapdoor had given way and a pile of crumbling planks below him to mark the descent.  The room wasn’t really all that much bigger than that.  It had a dark, low ceiling that made the entire thing very claustrophobic and the walls were lined with sagging, wooden shelves filled with more foggy jars.  At least it was small enough that Enjolras knew he was only thing in it besides a handful of spiders among the shelves.

The problem was though that despite the tiny cellar was, the ceiling still towered well out of Enjolras’s reach and if there ever was a ladder then it had either been removed or had long since broken apart.

Heart pounding so heavily in his throat he could hardly breathe past it, Enjolras scrambled to the edge of the little cellar and flung himself upwards at the ledge – if only, if he could just…

His fingers didn’t come close to the edge, they grasped at  air

Again. He jumped again, and again, until he fell heavily against the wall, gasping, shuddering.

Trapped. He was trapped down here.  He couldn’t get out.  And it wasn’t like any of them had thought to bring ropes… if he wanted to get out, he’d have to wait for them to leave and come back with something to rescue him with, they’d have to leave him alone down here in the dark…

“ _Grantaire_ ,” he tried to call but it came out as more of a hoarse croak, barely enough to make the dust stir in the air never mind be heard in the rest of the house.

Looking around, he scrambled for a crate tucked against the far wall and heaved it towards the opening.  Its faded apple brand was still legible and Enjolras prayed that meant it hadn’t been as eaten away as the trapdoor.  It held steady as he heaved himself onto it but as he jumped – fingers just brushing the edge, jarring his nails and still not far enough, too high, still trapped, but as he dropped back down he hit the crate hard enough for the wood to splinter under his feet and send him tumbling back down, sore ankle complaining under the assault.

“Did you hear that?”

“You think it’s a ghost thumping around in there?  Probably Enjolras trying to kill a spider.”

“Courfeyrac?” Enjolras called out desperately.

_“Enjolras?_ ”

There was a thumping of feet that made dust shake loose over head, and then Enjolras was squinting up into twin beams of light as Courfeyrac and Grantaire peered over the sides of what was once the cellar door.

“How the hell’d you get down there?” Grantaire called, eyebrows in his hairline, clearly shocked at Enjolras’s daring for exploring the cellar.  How soon he would be disappointed.

“I fell,” Enjolras said, trying to keep his voice from quavering. “The floor gave way.  I– there’s no ladder, I can’t get out.”

“ _Shit_ , are you okay?” Courfeyrac called down as Grantaire swore next to him, craning to look further into the hole, trying to ensure that Enjolras was whole and well.

“I’m okay,” Enjolras said.  He was, he was, he would be fine, even if he was left alone in this dark house, in this hole, he would be fine… “My ankle’s twisted but that’s it.  But there’s no way out.  You– someone will have to go and get a rope, or, or something.”

“Is Enjolras in there?” he heard Jehan call from somewhere in the distance, followed by more thumping and then Courfeyrac’s head disappeared to call over Jehan and Combeferre.

“You’re okay?” Grantaire asked again, gently.

“Don’t leave,” Enjolras found himself saying, to his embarrassment.

Then Grantaire’s head disappeared and Enjolras nearly choked on his fear again as the room seemed to become all the more darker, even with his little flashlight – was this another prank?  Or would Grantaire just leave him like this to go talk to Jehan?  Or was he finding a way to get Enjolras out?

But the second had hardly passed before Grantaire’s head was replaced with his worn sneakers, and Enjolras couldn’t even get a warning out before Grantaire had dropped heavily into the pit next to him.

“You _idiot_ ,” Enjolras cried, slapping Grantaire back before he was even able to straighten. “What’s the point of _both_ of us being stuck?” 

“Enjolras–”

You’re the strongest, the others are going to need you if they get a rope to pull me out with, what were you _thinking_ –”

“ _Enjolras_. It’s fine.”

And Grantaire stood.  And kept standing.  And… and, oh.  Grantaire would actually need to be careful not to bump his head on the far end of the cellar where the ceiling sloped.  He raised a brow at Enjolras, gesturing grandly to himself, and smirked as Enjolras went red.  Without further adieu he hauled Enjolras up around the waist and carried him over to the lip of the hole, which Enjolras was now able to easily heave his arms over and, with Courfeyrac and Jehan’s help, was able to pull himself back onto the sturdy, kitchen floor. Combeferre was patting his back reassuringly as Grantaire leapt at the hole with a huff and pulled himself easily up over the edge.

“I hate you,” Enjolras grumbled as Grantaire knelt down next to him and pulled him into a hug.

“So, what, that means you and your poor, twisted ankle _don’t_ want to be carried?”

Enjolras huffed but immediately looped his arms around Grantaire’s neck and his legs around his waist, and clung to him as he straightened up. Without a word, Grantaire’s arms were looped around him, holding him securely in place, and Enjolras pressed his head against the crook of Grantaire’s neck, deep into his hoodie and breathed with relief a smell that wasn’t tinged with dust and mildew.

“Should I take this to mean you’re ready to head home?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras grunted his agreement.

“…I seriously can’t believe how short you are, Enjolras,” Grantaire added, earning himself a sharp kick in the side.  “But it does mean I get to play the dashing hero, so I’m not complaining.

“I _really_ hate you,” Enjolras amended, but Grantaire’s laughter was a reassuring rumble against his chest, and okay, there were definite perks to being short and those included being carried and cuddled like you weighed as much as a teddy bear, and Enjolras wasn’t ever going to complain about that.  Especially if it meant being carried promptly out of this awful house, down the street, and preferably straight into his warm bed.


End file.
